Most of us were there the night my grandmother pulled the plug on my grandfather. My father was stuck in a freak storm up north, huddled in some motel room, surely mourning in his own way.
My grandfather didn’t cry, but I knew he was in pain. We stood around him, waiting.
Grandmother broke the silence. “There’s no recovering from this,” she said, moving quickly and yanking the cord. The screen went dark.
He looked up but made no sound.
I patted his hand, which still clutched the TV remote. “C’mon, Grandpa. It’s over; they lost. Maybe next year. Let’s eat.”